Stories of motherhood

Four and a half decades ago, there was a young woman, who became pregnant, but not on purpose. She carried a baby inside of her body and inside of her heart for nine long months. She sang to that baby, she prayed for her, and, when the time came, she touched her cheek, not even knowing if she were a she or a he, and let a nurse carry her to her family, waiting anxiously outside.

On the same day, that baby’s mom, who has never birthed a baby, had a party, to celebrate life, and her new daughter. They shared cigars with the neighbors and marveled over tiny toes while the other woman, alone, shared grief and relief, with nobody but herself.

On too many days, there are other women, saying goodbye to their mothers. Too often, to their children.

On all of the days, mothers experience frustration, pride, relief, boredom, laughter, and indefinable joy. Often within a period of mere minutes.

These are stories of motherhood.

Mom.

If there is a word that exists within the human psyche that raises more emotions and feelings than the word Mom does, I’d like to know what it is.

What do you think of when you see the word Mom? Do you think of your youth, summer barbeques, your Mom drinking Tab, her funny hairstyles, or of the smell of freshly cut summer grass while living in the day when we played outside until dusk?

In just a few hours, I, along with 13 other women, will be reading a story. Some are about moms, and some are about being a mom.  In themselves, they’re not particularly unique or perfect. But each is full of magic and power.

In preparing for today, I admit to moments of self-loathing. Regret about not losing some weight for today’s show. Self-doubt. Wishing I’d had that surgery to remove the suitcases that have permanently taken residence beneath my eyes. Wondered what was wrong with me for not making an appointment to learn about wrinkle fillers that I may not be allergic to.

My pants are too tight, my face betrays years of holding it to the sun, and I haven’t gotten enough sleep in, well, ever, it seems.

I am not perfect.

Which is really the point. While none of us is perfect alone, we get close to it through shared experiences. Stories. We become more powerful, bigger, and more aware when hearing about other women’s struggles, successes, embarrassing moments, doubts, and celebrations.

Stories. They’re what bond us and bind us.

Come laugh, come cry, come be a part of the bigger connection.  The show is Listen to Your Mother. In DC, it’s at 2pm today. I’m thankful to be able to share this day with imperfectly perfect people. Some of them will be telling a story. Others will be hearing them. Each will leave affected, and a little closer to perfect.

It’s not too late to get your tickets (or parking info if you’re coming and you should totally come).

I’m thankful to be a part of Listen to Your Mother. x10.

Your hosts: A Fly on our (Chicken Coop) Wall, Amycake and the Dude, Considerings, Finding Ninee, Getting Literal, I Want Backsies, Mother of Imperfection, Rewritten, Thankful Me, The Wakefield Doctrine